


A Path for the Weary

by CoffeeQuill



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Anxiety Attacks, Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, Comfort, Family Bonding, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Mandalorian Culture, Single Parents, Trauma, Young Din Djarin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23389330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeQuill/pseuds/CoffeeQuill
Summary: There’s a change. There’s always a change, a pivotal moment, something that fans the internal flames that had them brought here in the first place. There’s a fight inside every foundling, ignited by something. The goal of their assigned clan is to find the fuel. To light the spark.When Din Djarin arrives at the compound, he faces the same adjustment like so many others.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Original Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Paz Vizla
Comments: 31
Kudos: 217





	A Path for the Weary

**Author's Note:**

> Some more content during this long quarantine. Stay inside and wash your hands, y'all. Make sure you're drinking water and taking care of your mental health!
> 
> Caleb Forte is an OC created to be Din's finder. Hope you enjoy him.
> 
> Come chat on the [discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N) for Mando talk, more writing, and to just hang out.  
> Follow me on [tumblr!](https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/)

Foundlings all arrive the same. They may come from different places, but it’s always the same dance, the same challenge.

They come into the compound, holding their finder’s hand or held in their arms, staring around with wide eyes. Fear, nervousness, curiosity, a battle waged inside them at the new life being presented to them. Whether they’re war orphans who’ve been saved or street urchins being swept up, it’s all the same. With faces that have been wiped clean but dirt still remaining, with frightened eyes and a jumpy demeanor, with no shortage of trauma and grabby hands desperate for comfort.

For days, new foundlings cling to their finders, the only sense of that comfort in a compound full of masked faces.

It takes time for personalities to emerge from their repression, for voices to be found, for adjustments to be made. There is gentility with those who are newly arrived, who still look at the Mandalorians with an uneasy fear, who cry more than they eat and tremble when spoken to.

But there’s a change. There’s always a change, a pivotal moment, something that fans the internal flames that had them brought here in the first place. There’s a fight inside every foundling, ignited by _something._ The goal of their assigned clan is to find the fuel. To light the spark.

When Din Djarin arrives at the compound, he faces the same adjustment like so many others.

Clan Forte is one of the smallest clans at the compound, and when their youngest son returns from a mission with his own foundling in tow, there’s no end to the attention the clan is willing to lavish upon him. Without proper ceremony, the boy cannot see their faces, something that certainly unsettles him. So they keep their distance to not overwhelm him.

Din is small, quiet, as clingy to his finder, Caleb, as one would expect. He shies away from gatherings, answers questions with up to three words at a time. He wakes from nightmares with screams. _A usual foundling,_ the eldest ones of the clan murmur. The anxiety, the nightmares, the horrid ocean of emotions is expected, allowed to be expressed within the safety of their clan.

But it is assuring, too. Din has a spark. It glows so small, too small to give any light, but it still burns. They see it in his worst moments of panic. When he sobs and begs for his parents and forces Caleb away. When he runs to find a hiding spot, and he’s good at those. He’ll hide himself away for as long as it takes to unravel before he returns, a sniffling exhausted mess, and crawls into Caleb’s arms to be held. Caleb was their last foundling, and he always, always gives him the comfort he needs. Even when it means smearing his neck guard with tears and mucus.

Caleb is young himself, an age where taking on a foundling still seems early. But he understands Din. He _gets it._ He understands when the boy needs space or needs comfort, even when the tears look the same. His missteps are few and less costly. 

Over time, the bond between them strengthens, and soon Din begins to settle.

_A usual foundling._

He still clings to Caleb, but little by little, begins to inch away. In the mornings, he may come to find breakfast on his own without waiting for Caleb to wake. He’ll respond to questions with a sentence, with multiple sentences, though he cuts himself off before he can ramble. The first person he begins to respond to is Caleb’s _buir,_ who he’ll sit close with as she tells him stories. The tales and legends of Mandalore, of their history, stories of the great mythosaur and the battles they’ve won. Din listens with rapt attention, soaking it in.

They begin to teach him Mando’a, dropping words in casual conversation with the context for him to understand. He takes to it, slow but steady.

While the clan is gathered together in their common room, split into groups where they talk or play games, Din sits with Caleb on the outskirts. He looks out at all the Mandalorians, his expression obvious of the thoughts whirling in his head. Caleb just waits for him to voice them. Finally, he looks up at his finder. _“A… Aliit?”_

Caleb looks at him.

Din gestures to the others with a hand, to the whole room. _“Aliit,”_ he says. “Clan. Family?”

Caleb looks at him, then smiles wide beneath his helmet, slipping an arm around Din’s shoulders to pull him close. “Right,” he says. _“Aliit_ is your clan. Your family.”

Din smiles, then curls up into his side. He squirms about to get comfortable against Caleb’s armor, but once he does, he relaxes.

After a bit more time, his personality begins to edge out of hiding, and both Caleb and their matriarch know that he can step out of their clan’s circle.

Mandalorian-born children are as different as can be from their found counterparts. They grow up with their clan and friends, raised with the warrior culture, already bred with tenacity and determination in their veins. Those who were found at a young enough age mix right in with them, knowing nothing else. Their idea of playing is fighting, wrestling, always working to be the best.

Be careful with the foundlings, they’re told. They aren’t like you. One day, they will be, but not yet.

Din reverts back to his shyness almost immediately as he’s introduced to his peers, grabbing onto Caleb’s hand. “Don’t go,” he pleads. “Don’t go.”

So Caleb stays, and Din clings to him without a single attempt to play with the others.

It takes time before the separation happens. Before Caleb can leave Din there without a meltdown, and when he does, there’s tears and a sense of guilt. But these will be his comrades, his friends, the Mandalorians he one day trusts his life with. It’s another adjustment to be made. When he comes back to get Din, he’s asleep in the corner, exhausted by his tears.

It takes longer before Din is able to step into the games, doing so with tentativeness. First, he simply sits among them. His voice is slow to come. He watches with wide eyes as the Mando-born play their fighting games, tackling each other to the ground and throwing punches. He imagines that they’re all covered with bruises and wonders how it could possibly be entertaining.

But the foundlings, though quiet, _are_ drawn into the games.

“We’ll play Breakout,” Paz says. He’s one of the Vizla boys, the largest of the group, one of the oldest, and the usual decider of what the children do. The Mando-born call him _al’verde_ and it takes time before Din learns it means ‘commander’. “Everyone can play that.”

“How do you play?” someone asks, the timid voice of a foundling.

“It’s like Chase,” Paz says. “Whoever’s the chasers have to catch people. If you’re caught, you have to come back here. If you’re running, you come back here and try to break out the prisoners. Got it?”

Nodding heads.

“Okay. Chasers are you and…” He points at Griphin Tero, a foundling who came as a baby, then looks around. His gaze pauses on Din, and his heart spikes, but then it passes over to another foundling instead. “You.”

Din breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Run!”

They scatter like flies.

Din and two others take off down the hallway, and there’s a nervous excitement in his stomach, with adrenaline pumping and that slight dash of fear that comes with being chased, just enough to make it _fun._ There’s footsteps behind them, one of the chasers, and they dodge other Mandalorians through the corridors.

They aren’t scolded, only reminders of “careful!” called after them as the adults step out of the way.

They sprint down the halls, and right away his heart is pounding in his chest. He makes a sharp turn and takes off down the new corridor, and the footsteps don’t follow. He looks over his shoulder as he slows down, breathless, but there’s no one there. He continues at a slow walk, catching his breath, and soon comes to the other side with the corridors make a ‘T’. He looks down either side.

One is darkened, the only other light appearing from much further down. The other has light. He looks into the darkness, then steps out and walks towards the light.

Hands seize him from behind, and he lets out a shout, fear spiking all over him. “Got you!” Griphin says, but Din collapses to the floor, tears in his eyes. “... Din? Are you okay?”

Din whimpers, trembling.

“Hey.” Griphin crouches down next to him. “I’m sorry. That was--it’s okay, Din. You’re okay.”

Din’s breath is shaky as he hugs himself. It’s too much. Too much. It was supposed to be fun. It was fun just a minute ago. Just until he was scared.

“You don’t have to play,” Griphin says. “We won’t make you.”

Din stares at the floor, then shakes his head, taking a deep breath. His lungs feel jumpy.

But he hates being so scared.

“No,” he says. “I… I w-want to play.”

Griphin looks up at him, frowning and looking unconvinced. “Okay,” he says anyway. “Well… you have to go sit at the starting spot.”

Din nods. Griphin gives his shoulder a touch, then turns and runs off to find the others.

He retraces his steps back to the starting spot and finds that he isn’t the first one caught. Two more are sitting at the spot, two foundlings, and Din can’t remember their names. The panic doesn’t leave him as he sits down with them.

Several kids come sprinting by to try and free them, but Griphin or the other chaser manages to come after them in time, and they’re left to sit until the foundling chaser just sits in the room on guard. More Mando-born try their hand at releasing them, only to laugh as they’re chased away.

Their numbers grow as more and more are caught, almost half the amount of children playing. A few adults walk through, some letting out amused sounds at the number of kids simply sitting on the floor. They skirt around the game. More kids come running with no luck.

With the distraction, Din begins to feel better.

It’s Paz who finally frees him. As another girl is chased, he runs through and taps someone’s shoulder, Griphin right behind him. “Go!” he shouts.

They scatter again, jumping to their feet to run. “Nooo!” Griphin groans. “We were almost…”

But they all disappear again, and the game goes on.

Hours later, they’ve tired themselves out. They had a break for dinner, only to throw themselves back into it, and the game continued with new chasers. No pair has managed to catch everyone. The sunlight from the overheads has long since gone, the compound lit now by lanterns. As they all begin to return to the play room, a fire has been lit in the hearth, supplying gentle warmth. Several of them collapse down in front of it, yawning.

Din yawns too, rubbing at his eyes. Several of the Mando-born simply lie down together, some sprawling over the others. Some foundlings doesn’t hesitate to pile in, while others just watch. It feels odd. Without helmets, the children use each other as pillows, sprawling out with their eyes shut.

They’re content to simply fall asleep here.

Din watches, then sits down a few feet from the pile, struggling to keep his eyes open. He isn’t sure if this is a nightly thing or if Caleb usually came for him before now. But his finder hasn’t appeared. He contents himself to curl up there on the floor -- it feels nice now, but it might not later -- and closes his eyes.

“Hey.”

He looks up. Griphin is looking over at him, using another foundling’s leg as a pillow, and he’s frowning. “Come on,” he says, his voice soft. “Get in.”

Din bites his lip, then shifts. “I’m… fine.”

“But you’re alone.”

“Din.” It’s Paz’s voice. “Come _on.”_

Several other heads turn to look at him. So, biting his lip, he crawls over. There’s a spot between two kids, and he lays down there. He doesn’t use anyone for a pillow--it feels odd. But Griphin turns away as though satisfied. 

Din closes his eyes, and in his exhaustion, drifts off to sleep.

He wakes up to being shaken, hands on his shoulders that gently rock him with a voice murmuring his name. _“Din. Din…”_

He looks up into Caleb’s visor, a dark shadow as the light shines behind him. Din blinks sleepily, then looks around. He’s still among the foundlings. Some have disappeared, while most are still sleeping. He’s using a boy’s stomach for a pillow while his legs are outstretched, away from the others.

“I forgot to come get you,” Caleb says, giving Din’s arm a squeeze. It draws his attention back. “I’m sorry. I came late and you were asleep. Were you okay?”

Din nods. “It was fine.”

“Good.”

Caleb picks him up and Din is happy to curl around him, resting his head on his pauldron. It was nice that they wanted him in the pile, too. That he wasn’t on the outside for once. But he still prefers his clan and is happy to be carried back.

The compound is still sleepy. A pair passes them—the changing sentries from outside. A Mandalorian is in the hall, bouncing a fussing baby as they walk, murmuring soft words of Mando’a to calm them. Din watches over Caleb’s shoulder, hears the baby’s whimpers quiet down. He shifts and burrows his face into Caleb’s neck, holding on tighter.

“What’s ‘papa’ in Mando’a?” he asks.

Caleb’s arms tighten on him, just a moment, before adjusting him instead. _“Buir,”_ he says, his voice a little higher than normal. _“Buir_ is father. Or mother.”

“They’re the same.”

“Yes, it’s neutral.”

He’s called him by his name all this time that _buir_ instead of _Caleb_ seems wrong. But he mumbles it and doesn’t miss Caleb’s intake of breath. “When can I see your face?” he asks.

Caleb’s hand comes to the nape of his neck, gently pressing and massaging, and Din melts beneath it. “When I adopt you,” he says. “There’s some formalities. To claim you as my son.”

 _When._ Not _if._ As his _son._

It fills his whole body with a certain warmth. To know that Caleb _wants_ him as his son. He curls in closer and lets out a contented sigh. Caleb holds him tight as they return home, and Din feels happier than he has in months.

The foundling pile doesn’t happen _every_ night, but it does most night. Sometimes it’s in front of the fire, sometimes in the middle of a room. Some nights they still have the energy to return to their own beds, often it’s a matter of passing out together. 

More often that not, Din is a part of the pile.

Caleb still comes to check on him like clockwork, standing in the doorway to catch his attention, and usually Din gives a nod that he’s okay. He doesn’t need to leave. There’s nights where it’s just too much, and he gets up to leave -- and when the kids whine for him to stay, Caleb will be the bad guy, say that he has to come home. Din smiles then and gives him a tighter hug.

His nightmares begin to lessen, though they still plague him most nights. When he asks, Caleb will sleep beside him, letting Din hold onto him though it means he sleeps with his helmet. He never complains about it, just strokes Din’s back until he sleeps, and when his nightmares wake him with sweat on his skin and tears in his eyes, he’s right there for comfort.

Between his growing friendship with the other kids and his comfort with his new clan, everything is good, he thinks. His Mando’a vocabulary is beginning to grow. Their clan members begin to use more of the language with him, not just working on it directly but switching during conversations.

 _“Gar kar’taylir darasuum,”_ they say to him sometimes, though it’s the one phrase they won’t translate. When he asks, they just give him a shoulder squeeze or ruffle his hair and tell him he’ll put it together on his own. It makes him pout at them. That earns him a laugh and an affectionate _“copikla, ad’ika.”_ At least he knows that one.

He’s been a ward of Clan Forte for more than half a year when he’s adopted. When his Mando’a lessons end early and instead Caleb takes him to their common room, where the whole clan has gathered with them in the center space. Every game or conversation is put on hold, all watching them.

“What’s going on?” Din whispers.

Caleb just takes his hands and squeezes them. After a moment, he speaks. “I told you that when I adopt you, you’d be able to see my face,” he says.

Din stares at him.

“Do you…” Caleb pauses. His voice is soft before he clears his throat. “Do you _want_ to be my son?”

His heart races. A lump forms in his throat. Aware of the clan around them, he just nods his head.

Caleb keeps a hold on his hands but lowers down to a knee, putting them face to face rather than Din looking up. The black visor of his helmet doesn’t feel cold and unending anymore -- not like it used to. Din stares into it, into eyes he can’t see.

“Din Djarin.” Caleb’s voice is firm and clear, the same authority in it that many Mandalorians carry, louder for the others to hear. “I choose to take you into my clan and my tribe. I take you as my charge, my responsibility, and my child. I swear on my life and my honor to continue what your parents could not and to raise you as a Mandalorian, and to follow the Way of the Mandalore.”

Din stares at him, tears forming in his eyes.

“To teach you our language, help you craft your armor, and understand our ways. To forge you into a Mandalorian, unbreaking and unyielding.” Caleb squeezes his hands. “I swear these things before Clan Forte, and offer my life and honor should I break it.” There’s a pause. _“Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad. Haat, ijaa, haa'it.”_

He’s barely holding back his tears and when Caleb’s hands pull away, he lets out a whimper and reaches for him. Caleb catches his wrists and gently pushes them down, then lets go and instead reaches for his helmet.

Around them, the Mandalorians of their clan reach for their own helmets, each removing them to reveal faces he has never seen before. He looks around with big eyes, struggling to put armor to faces. His gaze immediately snaps back to Caleb when his helmet is lifted.

He’s young. His hair is dark brown, thick and curly and mussed by his helmet until he runs a hand through to smooth it away from his face, some length to it though unseen with the helmet. His face is softly rounded, his skin an off sort of pale without sunlight. Din stares into warm brown eyes, then down at soft dustings of stubble.

“Din,” he says. His voice is different without his helmet’s modulator. It isn’t full of static, or scratchy, or filtered. It’s his _voice._ Din stares at him.

Then, he breaks into a sob and throws himself into his father’s arms.

Caleb drops his helmet to hold him, his arms encasing him in a tight embrace. Sobs wrack Din’s body, the tears and emotion pouring out into Caleb’s shoulder. The feeling is so strong that the tears don’t stop, can’t stop, and he trembles as his back is rubbed. He can’t _breathe,_ overcome with hiccuping sobs.

Caleb sits down and Din crumples into his lap, holding on as tight as he can. He’s held and rocked, fingers combing through his hair, soft Mando’a being whispered as he’s gently shushed.

It takes forever before he begins to calm, when he can just hold onto Caleb with tight arms and focus on regaining his breath, occasional hiccups making him tremble. The rest of the clan has disappeared, giving them privacy, as Caleb holds him. A gentle kiss is pressed to his temple before Caleb leans their foreheads together, holding their faces close.

 _“Ner ad,”_ Caleb murmurs. _“Ner ad.”_

 _“B… Buir,”_ Din whispers. He swallows hard. _“Ner buir.”_

They sit there for what feels like hours, until Din is left exhausted and pliant, easily picked up and carried to their quarters.

“Don’t go,” Din whimpers when Caleb moves to lay him in his bed “Don’t go.” He digs his fingers into the edges of the armor plating.

“I won’t,” Caleb promises. _“Ad’ika._ I need to take this off.”

So Din lets go, though it makes his stomach twist to do so. He watches instead as Caleb steps back and removes the beskar armor and flight suit. He lays it aside on a chair with distinct reverence before he’s down to the normal clothes. He steps back towards Din.

Din moves aside so he can lie down in the bed, and when he does, he’s quick to slot against Caleb’s side like so many sleepless nights before. His _buir_ holds him tight, all warmth and comfort and safety. When Caleb murmurs in Mando’a, it doesn’t take long for Din to become drowsy.

_“Gar kart’taylir darasuum.”_

_I love you._

No nightmares come for him.

Not long after his adoption into his clan, his training begins. Mandalorians are forged by fire and foundlings are given a taste of it on the very first day. ‘Hell week’, the first week is lovingly dubbed; the adjustment into the training.

Din’s body has never hurt so badly.

But it isn’t all bad. They’re moved away from home and into small barracks together for the initiation weeks and there’s plenty of time that they spend together. They talk, laugh, help each other recover from the day, and everything in between. Din feels a homesickness down to his bones but it’s hard to miss his clan when he’s being pushed to his limit or listening to stories told by the others.

Most nights is when they pile together.

Sore from training and freshly showered, they drag their blankets off their usually pristine beds and layer them on the floor, tossing in their pillows before they let themselves fall into a heap. Din lies on the edge, preferring not to be crushed in the middle, but he doesn’t hesitate to join anymore. It’s just natural.

Their little unit spends most nights on the floor.

They run drills every day. They run until they collapse, until their arms and legs give out, given just enough rest that they can do it again. They’re taught field medicine, how to hold and shoot a blaster, drilled until they could do it in their sleep. They learn combatives, to punch and kick properly, to grapple and to take the other down.

It’s accelerated, pushing them to catch up with their peers who have been here.

Combatives are difficult for Din. He’s small and quick but easy to grab and throw. As they pile together at night, he’s black and blue. It takes more weeks of training before he can turn the tide of his fights, use his speed and flexibility, to squirm out of a pin and make his opponent tap out.

It’s progress.

When jetpacks are introduced -- that’s when Din has fun.

They return home at the end of initiative training. Din is bruised and tired but stronger and fitter, and if he’s right, he’s gotten _taller._ Regardless, he loves nothing more than throwing himself at his _buir,_ who laughs and holds him. “How was it?”

“Hard. I missed you.”

“I missed you too, _ad’ika.”_

His clanmates are eager to hear about the training -- they missed him _so much_ \-- and are insistent on getting details about _today’s_ training. They’re all inquisitive, and when Din grumbles about it, one of his _bavodu’e_ laughs and ruffles his hair. “We can’t help it, _Din’ika,”_ she says. “You’re the clan baby. _Ik’aad.”_

“I’m not a _baby.”_

But it doesn’t matter. His _buir_ is the youngest after him, and their family is small. His pouts are ignored, so he just focuses on remembering as many details as he can. Caleb watches him with a smile

Din doesn’t confess his defeats to the others, but when he’s sitting on his bed in their quarters, he pours it out to Caleb, who sits and listens with quiet attention. “I lost most of them,” he says, his voice soft. “That’s… is that bad?”

“It was your initiative weeks,” Caleb says, and seeing his _buir’s_ face is still strange but it adds more comfort to his words to be able to see his eyes. “You were thrown right into it. Losing some fights doesn’t mean anything. You’ll learn to get better and you _will_ get better, especially when you grow. Losses teach you how to improve.”

Din frowns and looks down at his hands.

“Hey.” Caleb looks at him. “This is part of it, Din. The pain and the defeats and this feeling -- it isn’t fun, I know. But it makes you stronger. You temper steel by putting it through heat again and again until it’s improved. This is the same thing.”

Din looks up, then sighs. “I guess,” he says.

Caleb squeezes his shoulder. “Part of my vow to you is to help you,” he says. “And I will. Sleep now and tomorrow, we can go over your technique and see what to improve. Alright?”

He smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “That will help.”

“Good.” Caleb gives him a push and stands up. “Go to sleep, womp rat.”

Din catches himself and grins, watching Caleb walk to his own bed and begin to take off his armor. He lies down and pulls the blanket up, then tucks himself in, closing his eyes. He takes deep breaths and listens to the sounds of armor being removed.

He’s warm. He’s safe. His worries are melted away and far out of reach.

“Night,” he mumbles.

“Goodnight,” his father says. Din smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Mando'a:  
> Aliit - family/clan  
> Al'verde - commander  
> Buir - father/mother  
> Gar kar’taylir darasuum - I love you  
> Copikla - cute, adorable  
> Ad'ika - little one/son/daughter  
> Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad - I know your name as my child (adoption vow)  
> Haat, ijaa, haa'it - truth, honor, vision (words to seal a pact)  
> Ner ad - my son  
> Ner buir - my father  
> Bavodu'e - aunts/uncles (ba'vodu for singular)  
> Din'ika - little Din ('ika after a name is usually a childhood nickname)  
> Ik'aad - baby
> 
> Come chat on the [discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N) for Mando talk, more writing, and to just hang out.  
> Follow me on [tumblr!](https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/)


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